Tanked - A CGIS Story
by Matt.Burton
Summary: We've seen Agent Abigail Borin in action in Washington D.C. and in New Orleans but now she's on her own turf. As a senior agent with the Coast Guard Investigative Service Borin helms her own team out of the Port of Baltimore. Seconded by the familiar Kyle Omagi and joined by a recent FLETC graduate Agent Borin must investigate the disappearance of a post panamax ship's captain.
1. Chapter 1

"Good morning, Agent Borin."

Amidst the sea of mariners, port employees and uniformed Coast Guard personnel Abigail Borin pushed her way through the morning crowd to retrieve her first caffeine boost of the day. The popular coffee franchise located just outside the main gate of the Port of Baltimore was divided by class, business suits to one side daintily sipping their specialty coffee opposite the blue collar crowd with their sugary baked goods and breakfast _sammiches._ Appropriately situated between the two CGIS Agent Borin, leaning in no particular direction, stepped up to the counter and smiled warmly at the familiar barista.

"You know the drill, Jesse," Borin said out of routine.

"Venti black," Jesse relayed to her coworker, black dye-job pigtails bobbing atop her head as she scooped up a familiar blue cup of _Anchor Press,_ emblazoned with a white anchor namesake and used a white marker to scribble _Agt Abby_ in barely legible font. "How's Arlington treating you?" the Goth barista asked, using the butt of her marker to push thick black framed glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"My two weeks as assistant SAC are over and you'll be, once again, seeing me every morning, Jesse," Borin promised with a sigh of relief as she passed a crisp five-dollar bill to her regular caffeine dealer, the one person she could communicate with before her first mouthful of coffee of the day. "Good thing too," Borin added. "The Anchor Press kiosk outside the Arlington office just doesn't do your coffee justice."

Even in exchange for a $2.45 cup of joe Jesse dropped the $2.55 in change into her tip cup without offering it back to one of the Anchor Press' most regular clients. "See you again at ten," she said as a statement rather than a question even though the clocks still read 7:37.

"You know it," Borin said as she lifted her freshly brewed cup, complete with white lid, in a sign of appreciation as Jesse moved to eagerly greet her next customer.

Looking the part of business elite, the customer caught Borin's eye as she passed, dressed to the nines in his well-tailored dark blue suit, light blue shirt and a gold tie complete with high end cuff links. The gentleman with his broad runner's physique, brown hair coiffed to one side and comfortable 6'1" height triggered something in the CGIS agent's memory. He was attractive but a little too put together, she observed, pretentiously tugging back his left sleeve to flash a genuine Rolex as he pulled out his phone.

"Tall non-fat vanilla latté, double shot," Borin over-heard the young man in his early twenties order, a far cry from her basic black coffee. Thumbing open an app to electronically pay for his order he again flashed the gold bling on his wrist. Borin never understood the method of payment, easily snatched out of thin air by a device designed for such means of fraud.

"What's your name, hon?" Jesse cheerfully asked, cup and marker in hand, despite the customers terse manner void of any greeting, please or thank-you. "You must be new to these parts," she added, familiar with 99% of the men and women who entered her domain.

"Topher," the customer replied, flashing a barely over-whitened set of expensive dental work. "Get use to these pearly whites. You'll be seeing them a lot more."

"Topher," Jesse repeated as she scribbled, sharing an eyeroll with Agent Borin as their eyes met and exchanged the same impression. "Pick-up down the line, hon."

Distracted from her own coffee which miraculously remained yet untouched Borin found the man in question picking up his order and making a bee-line for her. As the line grew rapidly between her and the exit, flooding with those due to begin the 8am shift, Borin found herself at his mercy.

"Agent Borin?" he called out in a sudden stutter which, for the moment, shut the curtain on his confident façade presented by his attire and accessories. "Are, are you Agent Abigail Borin?"

Sensing the conversation awaiting her would take its toll Borin snuck in a good-sized gulp of her coffee and allowed herself to bask in its rich powers to awaken and energize her for the day before replying. With a satisfying perhaps orgasmic sigh she opened with, "Now you may speak."

"Special Agent Topher Welch," the kid introduced himself, coming right out of the blue as far as Borin was concerned. "I've been assigned to Sector Baltimore's regional office," he further stated with an eagerness, again not at all meshing with the uppity rich boy façade as he outstretched his right hand. "I just finished FLETC on Friday. I'll be working with you, or for you, and Agent Montgomery too I guess. But I was told I'll probably never see him and you're usually in charge. I guess I might meet him at some point…"

"Breathe," Borin interrupted as the kid rambled, his head hanging in limbo before she finally accepted it with a firm handshake. The pieces fell together as she connected her sense of familiarity with the revelation this young man was, according to him, a member of her investigative unit on base. One of those pieces was confusion however as Borin recalled an application with his likeness coming across her desk as a candidate for an interview but knowing full well she had never gotten around to doing interviews for an open position as she was loaned to the office nearby in Arlington, VA.

"I am Agent Borin," she at last confirmed for the young agent. "Usually just Borin," she threw out there, wondering how she was going to fare with this new addition when it had taken nine years to housetrain Kyle Omagi.

"Or _boss,_ " a voice came from the entrance as none other than said Agent Omagi, Borin's number two, inserted himself into the meet and greet after wading through the still dense line of caffeine seekers in the Anchor Press' lobby. "And never _ma'am_ ," he wisely advised with a grin as he rubbed the base of his skull, a ghost head slap still lingering since the first and only time he used the same address for Borin almost a decade ago.

"Kyle Omagi," the senior agent introduced himself, quick to offer the junior his own handshake.

"And what do I call you?" Welch asked, his stutter hidden as he stood more at ease with Omagi.

"That would-be _sir_ ," Kyle definitively stated with absolutely no hesitation before allowing a grin to break through revealing all was in jest. "Just Kyle is fine," he relented.

"Couldn't wait in the car, Kyle?" Borin asked now that everyone had met and were playing nice.

"You got a call, boss," Kyle replied, holding up Borin's phone for emphasis, the latter having left it in their car. "I took it."

"Couldn't wait two minutes?" Borin asked as she grabbed her phone and lead the two men out of the café.

"Not when it comes from the director, boss. Who was personally awoken by the assistant commandant of intelligence after a 6am wake-up from the Homeland secretary's office," Kyle relayed off the top of his head as he reached the passenger side of a white four-door Dodge charger sedan identified as an agency vehicle by its government plates and Port of Baltimore drive-on decals.

"Need a ride?" Agent Borin offered from the driver's side door.

"Not necessary," Welch said with a sudden return of his confidence as he held up a car remote dangling two keys from its ring. With a twirl around his finger he hit the unlock button with what he must have thought was a sense of style.

Accompanied by two chirps a set of headlights flashed from a car parked directly behind the CGIS sedan. Following the direction of Welch's finger Borin and Omagi looked behind them to find a fully restored blue two-door 1969 Chevy Camaro with two white racing stripes along its hood.

"See you inside," Welch said complete with a strut as he walked to his vehicle.

"Daddy's got dollars," Kyle remarked aside to his boss, admiring the set of wheels via his rear view mirror as Welch ducked into the classic.

"More than just dollars," Borin asserted having come to a fresh realization. Already finishing up her first morning brew she tossed the cup into the back seat where it came to a noticeable clunk against at least one other cup laying somewhere on the rear seat floor.

"You know something I don't?" Kyle asked as Borin started the engine and head for the gate.

"His father is CGIS Director James Welch," Borin revealed, most certainly with some amount of annoyance.


	2. Chapter 2

The resident office of the Coast Guard Investigative Service aboard Sector Baltimore was best described as a hole in the wall prior to the events of 9/11. Back then it wasn't even a cleanly cut hole. It was better described as the end result of a bull dozer spiraling out of control. It contained nothing more elaborate than a couple of desks, phones and a painfully outdated desktop which had to be shared between two resident agents. In those days, the agents had to buy their own ammo to train with, usually to load into sidearm purchased out of pocket to offset the least reliable weapons provided to them by the agency.

Fortunately, with the destruction that followed 9/11 came an explosive enhanced budget to better guard the interest of national security. For CGIS, by the second decade of the new millennium that meant a slightly less crude hole in the wall. While possessing a broad reach in its law enforcement mandate the smaller agency was lucky to receive a fresh space and an increase to three full-time special agents who would be fortunate enough to all have their own computers, phones and other means to carry out their duties.

Structurally their office had been expanded to include a reception space with its own entrance off the third floor of their building and private accommodations for the agent in charge off from the bullpen. A corridor off the three-desk floor provided access to unisex personal facilities, an armory the size of a broom closet and a single interrogation room which could be observed from outside via a two-way mirror. A decent sized LCD television mounted above a token fern tree to one corner was the crown jewel.

Reuniting in the parking lot Agents Borin, Omagi and Welch transitioned together from the brown walls and tiled third floor hallway to the gray carpets and appropriate light blue walls of their office. A full-bodied Latina women welcomed them from the front desk, always the first to be in the office at the start of day. "Good morning, Agent Borin. Kyle. New guy." the woman in her late forties greeted each agent seeming to be already familiar with the fresh face.

"Morning, Lena," Borin returned. "This is…"

"Agent Christopher Welch," the administrative aide finished her boss' words.

"Topher Welch," he corrected, clearing his throat for emphasis. Perhaps a bad move.

"One of these days maybe," the admin said slyly. "I've been expecting you, mister," she said and reached into a top drawer for a set of leather bound credentials and a holstered Sig Sauer P229R. "Agent Montgomery already signed for your weapons." Clicking a pen, she handed it over to the junior agent with a clipboard. "And you just need to sign these, mister."

"Agent Welch, Lena Gutierrez. Life and blood of our office," Omagi made the introduction. "Don't mess with her if you want to survive your first week."

"Okay…" Welch trailed off while deciding whether or not to take Kyle's warning to heart as he returned the clipboard and pen. Reaching for his new creds and gun he was suddenly caught off guard as a taut arm cut off his reach with a steady glare from Ms. Gutierrez.

"Not so fast, boy," Lena warned, providing the new agent with a folder and stack of papers at least thirty sheets thick. "As my boy Kyle so wisely point out, if you want to make it through your first week at this port I want each and every one of these forms signed and dated by end of business day."

"Right. Yes, ma'am," Welch managed, taking the pages along with his new credentials and sidearm. Turning to Omagi, he asked, "Do I call her ma'am?"

"If your momma raised you right, you will," Lena finished with a smile as she returned to her own work. "Welcome to Baltimore, kid."

"It's best not to sweat," Omagi advised. "She can smell fear."

"Abby, messages from Homeland," Lean offered to the senior agent as the two men continued into the resident office via a double set of glass doors emblazoned with the Coast Guard seal. "Your phone has been ringing off the hook for the past twenty minutes. Don't you answer your cell phone?" Had it not been for this aide in particular, no one would get away with taking such tone and familiarity with the former marine and CGIS agent of 12 years.

Accepting the post-its Borin checked her phone to find yet another three missed calls had come in since driving in from the Anchor Press. "Thanks, Lena," she offered and followed her agents into the bullpen, continuing past them and heading straight into her personal office space.

"Good lord, my bladder must have shrunk to the size of a walnut," were the first words by which the latest addition was introduced to the Baltimore team of CGIS agents. A very much pregnant and auburn perm haired woman in a white blouse and black maternity pants groaned as she quite literally waddled out of the toilet. Her perm went with the motions as the agent dropped into her chair specifically requisitioned for her comfort in her third trimester.

Stepping behind the desk just outside the supervisory special agent's office door Kyle opened his laptop and logged into his e-mail, attempting to hide his amusement at the struggle inflicted upon the poor woman just to walk to her work station. "Deb, this is Agent Topher Welch," he introduced them, kind enough to use Welch's preferred name. "Deborah McIlwain. You'll be her replacement."

" _Temporary_ stand-in," McIlwain quickly interjected before noticing the fresh young eyes focused on her belly. "You can close your mouth. Yes, I know I'm pregnant," she said as she pulled a half-depleted package of Arrowroot cookies from her top drawer. "Does anyone have any mayo and pickles? These would make a nice sandwich right about now."

"I guess this is my desk?" Agent Welch asked, preparing to lay his papers on the third neat and almost bare desk beside McIlwain's which remained unattended.

Omagi nodded but followed up with, "Don't get too comfortable. My spidey sense tells me we'll be on the move soon."

"I better get ready," Agent McIlwain said. Cookie in hand she reached into one of her bottom drawers to retrieve her sidearm. "It seems to take me five minutes to get out the door lately."

"Not about to happen," Omagi replied. "You haven't been in the field for five months and as of next week you're leaving us for a ten-month long vacation," he said with feigned jealousy and an equally fake sneer.

"Some vacation," the pregnant woman groaned, relegating to her fate as she replaced her weapon and rubbed her inflated belly. "1am feedings. 3am feedings. 5am feedings. And diaper changes all between."

"I'd ask for a refund on that vacation package," Topher tried to join in the banter but found himself disappointed.

"Omagi, I don't know if I'm ever coming back," McIlwain lamented to the agent opposite a sport span of carpet from her, large enough to fit a water cooler and a mini-fridge beneath the window with a spectacular view of the parking lot. "I'm having twin boys for God's sake," she continued. "And if you're any indication of what they're going to be like I'm in for the fight of my life."

"You'll just be happy if they have my award-winning grin, Deb," Kyle said while flashing a damn near perfect smile of his own.

"New guy has the best smile of the office now I'm sorry to say, Kyle," McIlwain returned having already noticed Welch's teeth. "I'm practically blinded over here."

From the corner of her eye Abigail Borin observed the banter from the open shuttered pane of glass in her office as she checked her messages and daily alerts on her computer. Her office wasn't much-hell, FBI agents in their first month had a bigger office-but a desk and chair of her own with two guest chairs and a door to provide the option of shutting out Omagi's charming but sometimes tiresome ramblings was enough for her.

"Abigail Borin for the director," the agent indicated, picking up the phones receiver as her call connected with the Nebraska Avenue Complex in Washington, D.C. It wasn't every day, or ever, that she was personally reached out to by an executive with the Department of Homeland Security.

After a short stint of blurbs her call was transferred and answered by a harsh, grating guttural voice made possible only be four decades of a two pack-a-day habit. "Special Agent Borin, how was Arlington?" asked Brian Sattler in an odd and too-familiar manner for almost anyone aboard the supervisory agent's paygrade. The pleasantry was soon turned disingenuous as expected as the DHS deputy director continued without Borin having the opportunity to respond.

"The Goliath Atlantic is the latest acquisition of Carson-Dunbar International," the deputy director jumped straight into the thick of it, referring to one of the largest American shipping companies along the eastern North American seaboard. "It's in Baltimore's new post panamax port taking on cargo to ship to Qatar but it's hit a major snag."

As the deputy director took a labored breath followed by a single, heavy smoker's cough it became obvious to Agent Borin while her phone had blown up with calls from all levels within her chain of command. Somebody, somewhere within the Carson-Dunbar shipping conglomerate had their hands in the pocket of some politician in the capitol and had pulled some strings to get the personal attention of DHS.

"The Goliath Atlantic is due to set sail Wednesday morning," Sattler resumed. "As of 5am this morning both its captain and first mate haven't been heard from but they didn't sign off the ship or leave by way of any of the ports gates.

 _Barely three hours_ , Borin noted but chose not to dispute the short timespan with the deputy director. "Has a search been initiated? The ship locked down? If they are planning to set sail in two days that's one hell of a lot of cargo that needs to be searched."

That was evidently not the concern of the deputy director who was only ordering that the task be carried out. "Port security and additional Coast Guard personnel are at your disposal, Agent Borin," Sattler said. "Good day."

"Good day, sir," Borin said, hanging up the phone. It was a mission with little information but which was such a large undertaking given the ship they were tasked with searching. Typical bureaucratic manners of giving little information but expecting results as soon as possible were what brought out the Marine mentality in the senior special agent. She wasted no time as she stood from her desk and scooped up a standard blue jacket with gold lettering and match cap into her hands and walked out into the bullpen.

"Kyle. Agent Welch. Missing cargo ship captain. Time to go to work," Borin announced, gathering from the half grins of all involved she had interrupted some witty rhetoric between them and McIlwain. "Deb, I want the Coast Guard police to lock down the Goliath Atlantic. No one leaves or boards until I get there. All cranes stop. No more cargo gets transferred until I say so."

Amused, Borin asked Welch directly, "Do you happen to have a change of clothes in that flashy car of yours?"

Patting down himself as he looked over his clothing choice Welch shook his head. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Armani? Really?" McIlwain chastised, flinging out a hand to emphasize what the young man was wearing. "This isn't the FBI. Not even they dress that good."

"We're the Coast Guard, Topher," Omagi elaborated, arming himself and pulling out his own jacket and cap to throw over his personal choice of khaki pants and pin striped casual dress shirt. "We climb ladders. We scour wet, putrid cargo decks. We even search inside fuel tanks when necessary."

Welch's face turned to utter disgust as he imagined tanker oil covering his north of $1,500.00 attire.

"Hope you have a good drycleaner," Borin cracked as she continued towards the glass doors. "Rule number one is we go when I say we go. Omagi."

"Coming up behind," Omagi said, following in after Borin and practically dragging Welch out the door with him.


End file.
